


His Hair

by hopsjollyhigh



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Era, Persia Era, Pharoga - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 09:17:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7527070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopsjollyhigh/pseuds/hopsjollyhigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Strange things matter most to Erik, but at least the Daroga attempts to understand. Canon era, set in Persia. Pharoga tones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Hair

One would think that what would alarm me most might be the blood, but really, it was the hair. To walk into Erik’s apartment and find traces of blood was a matter of some concern, but nothing that hadn’t happened before- not that it was insignificant, but it was something that I had come to expect. At court, blood was his trade. I’d seen him injured, even helped stitch his wounds before. The hair was entirely new.

I wrapped my hand around the hilt of my dagger, kept always on my hip for protection, as I took the first few steps into his luxuriously decorated living room, priceless art and fine, rare linens smeared with blood and that long, dark hair. 

Contrary to what he might believe, I did not make a habit of trespassing in his rooms uninvited. I had come to deliver a request for his services- some of his illusion work to impress a visiting ambassador at an upcoming dinner, a request for some new and entertaining trick. Common business, really, but what I had heard at his door was anything but common. An otherworldly moaning, low and long and building to a furious, inhuman roar, enough to send my gut churning at the thought of entering.

But I did enter, of course. I always did. So there I stood, in the living room, as another low moan rattled through the apartment; this time, the direction was clear, and I turned cautiously toward the bathroom door.

“Erik?” I called, creeping across the room, hand still on my dagger. There was no response, but a choked sob from behind the closed door. “Erik?” I said his name again as I laid my hand flat against the wood, slowly moving my hand from the hilt of my weapon to the doorknob.

“Leave, Daroga.” His voice was wretched and broken; I furrowed my brow and leaned my head against the wood. The sound of his voice at all was enough to convince me that it was relatively safe. At the very least, it was him, and not some invading party in the apartment.  
“What happened in here?” I demanded, setting my hand on the knob, but not quite turning it. He wouldn’t get me to leave that easily, and we both knew it. There was a stubborn silence for a time; he wouldn’t give me permission- I held the knob more tightly.

“I’m coming in, Erik,” I said, and his lack of response concerned me more than anything he could have said. I pushed open the door, and the sight of him made my stomach churn in spite of myself. He was crouched on the ground, knees drawn up to his chest, head bent- his _head_. Raw, red patches of flesh shone on his scalp. A head injury bleeds profusely, as anyone versed in any first aid is well aware, and his clothes were soaked in red. It was as though someone had tipped a bucket of blood over his head, the way it dripped down his shoulders and matted what hair was left. The marble tile was stained and slippery, but I crossed it, horrified concern driving me closer to Erik.

“Who did this to you?” I asked, dropping to my knees in front of him, in order to better make eye contact. He looked up, just enough see my face for a moment, before shutting his eyes again and letting out a long, shuddering breath. My own hands were trembling; I curled them into fists with the thought that I should be more than accustomed to the sight of blood by now. “Erik,” I pushed him, my voice growing higher in pitch between my confusion and my desperation for an answer. What kind of an attack could this be? A stabbing, or a beating, I could understand something of that nature, but I couldn’t conceive why anyone would rip out Erik’s hair- or _how_ they would remain close enough to do such a thorough job.

“My hair…” Erik whimpered into his knees, eyes clenching shut even tighter. I bit back the urge to rush him. His hair. _Obviously_ his hair. Blood still oozed from the exposed flesh on his scalp. Each moment dragged by, only his ragged breathing and my sense of urgency; full of adrenaline, I could think of nothing worse than sitting and waiting, but I would never get an answer any other way.

“I tried to wash it, Daroga- it just- came out. Pieces of it. Entire chunks- and I thought- if it was going to _be like that-_ it should happen _all at once-_ ”

His hands were beginning to creep back up towards his head. I had seen him tangle and pull at his hair countless times; Erik’s hair was a topic of conversation around court. Long as a woman’s hair, people would say, and it was long- well past his shoulders, reaching the middle of his back at its longest. It was dark, and fine; men would joke that all the court’s women must have looked on it in envy. Perhaps they did. 

But the way Erik would fidget with his hair was like an odd sort of language, if one payed close enough attention. He would tie strands together out of boredom, wrap locks mindlessly around his fingers when he listened to something closely, or brush it behind his ear to acknowledge a person approaching. I’m not certain that he was even aware of what he betrayed about his state of mind in how he dealt with his hair. I’m not certain that anyone noticed, other than myself. I always paid attention.

But it was always clear, in the way that Erik would comb his hair in the evenings, the way that he untangled all of the knots and washed out the gathered dirt from the day, that he adored his hair. I had suggested once, that it might be dangerous- that an opponent might be able to grab him by his hair- and he had laughed in my face, told me that he’d accept the risk head-on, that he would _challenge_ any man to touch his hair.

Which only made the entire situation more perplexing. “You did this?” I asked incredulously, reaching for his hands and gently pushing them back down, away from his scalp. “You ripped your hair out? Erik, why?”

“It _fell_ out.”

“It didn’t _all_ fall out, it looks like you pulled most of it out. Why make it worse?”

He ripped his hands away from mine, and lifted his head to stare at me furiously. “It would’ve gotten worse _anyway_! There was no point in stalling- if my body wanted to _do this to me,_ I would be in charge of it happening. I wanted to be in control, Daroga.”

“Is this what _control_ looks like, then?” I asked, gesturing around at the blood-spattered room. “Honestly, Erik, why didn’t you _think_? There are a hundred reasons hair can fall out- _stress_ can make your hair fall out; it could’ve just grown back-”

“It’s nothing I would expect you to understand,” he spat back at me, golden eyes narrowed with sudden hostility. “You’ve never _lived in this body-_ it doesn’t _fix_ itself, Daroga, things don’t get better- nothing _comes back.”_  
Instinct told me to bite back, but I regarded him silently for a long moment, trying to absorb the significance of his words. He was right, in a way- I couldn’t know anything about his frustration; I had been blessed with a capable body, one that I felt _home_ in- if he could have chosen to be an animal instead of a person, if only to escape his own body, I’m certain that he would have. 

He had liked his hair. For all his arrogance, all the confidence he had in his abilities, I never heard him express any _fondness_ for any part of himself- other than that hair. He hadn’t managed to pull out all of it, of course; I studied him as he bowed his head again, assessing the damage. There was still enough, maybe, to hide some of the larger wounds. He was beyond talking about it, and I was beyond understanding. Minimizing the damage was all I could do.

“Okay, then. Come here. You can’t sit here like that. Lean back against the tub,” I said, and, for once, he didn’t voice any protest; he seemed shaken by his own outburst, something that never surprised me- he so often seemed surprised by things that he had done. I wondered more than once whether he was always in complete control of himself.  
He slid, nearly crawled across the bathroom floor and leaned back against the fine white bathtub. I took a towel from a shelf and handed to him- “around your shoulders,” I told him, and he listened again, draping it between his neck and the lip of the tub. He tensed as I touched his hair, but didn’t quite protest; I instructed him to tilt his head back, and directed his bloody, matted hair into the tub.

“This is going to sting on your scalp at first,” I told him, drawing a jug of cool water as I sat on the tub’s edge, next to his head. “It’s better to do it now, though. Dry blood would be harder to get out- are you ready?”

He nodded, and I tilted the pitcher, keeping it gentle but steady on his raw scalp; he winced at first, eyes closing tight. He’d endured pain a thousand times worse, but pain is always situational- here, in this quiet room, only the two of us there, I heard the hint of a whimper pass his lips. A pang struck me at the sound; I dampened a hand cloth, and gave it to him.  
“Your hands and face,” I said. “Clean them off. The blood all looks worse than it is. Head wounds are always like this, you know that.”

He gave a sigh that I could only interpret as agreement, as he ran the cloth across his forehead. Perhaps it would distract him from the sting of water on an open wound.

I can’t say how long we went on like that- him, clearing blood from his face, his hands, underneath his fingernails; me, pouring pitcher after pitcher over his hair until the water started to run a pale pink, and finally, nearly clear. I took a long comb from his shelf, and he regarded it nervously at first, but I ran the fine teeth through as smoothly as I could. He never spoke, but sighed often; the initial tension in his body wore away like glass worn smooth by the sea. He finished cleaning the blood from his hands and face long before I was done combing through his hair, and eventually, his eyes flickered, and then fell shut. I tried not to touch his scalp, but I could feel the release of tension when the back of my hand met the back of his neck, just a feather-light brush. I knew that it would be over if I said a word, and I refrained. I kept to my task, and I watched him, observed with satisfaction and something else- almost a type of _warmth_ \- as his rise and fall of his chest became ever slower, ever calmer.

When it was done, I set the comb and pitcher aside. He opened his eyes at the sound of them being set down; he still looked pathetic, and his clothes were filthy- he could see to that himself, though. After these sorts of fits, he always seemed disoriented, sometimes even remorseful. His head had stopped bleeding. The most I could think to do for him was to get him to relax.  
“You can send for someone to clean your apartment in the morning,” I told him. It was getting late- through the bathroom’s open door, I could see a window, and the sky was almost through darkening. “Change your clothes. I’ll find clean linens.”

He nodded, obedient as though he were in a haze, following my instruction as if he couldn’t think to do anything else. Maybe he couldn’t.

He went to retrieve a change of clothes, and retreated back into the bathroom while I opened a chest in his living room, pulling out a set of clean sheets. It took time to re-set his bed, but he took longer by himself in the bathroom- I could only assume that he was washing the blood where it had soaked through his clothes; he was clean when he emerged, wrapped in a silk robe. His hair was still damp, and hung limp around his shoulders. 

“Your bed is set,” I told him uselessly, gesturing to the obviously clean sheets. He nodded, and we stood there a moment; I wrung my hands awkwardly, and took a step back.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then-”

“It’s late,” he murmured, the first time he’d spoken since his outburst. I looked out the window, and nodded; the last traces of light were gone from the sky.

“That’s alright, it won’t be the first time I’ve gone home in the dark.”

He frowned at me, and looked out the window again. Finally, his gaze settled on the sofa in the corner of his room, one of few things untouched by blood in the apartment. “You’d do better to stay here,” he said, turning and taking a pillow and one of the blankets from his bed. “It would weigh on my conscience if your fragile hide were beaten by some assailant at night.”

The way he framed his requests to make them sound like favors! But I nodded slowly in understanding, and took the blanket and pillow from him.

“For my own good, then,” I said, attempting to veil my sarcasm. He let out a quite “hmph” and nodded; I set the bedding down on the sofa.

“It appears I have no choice, then,” I sighed in mock defeat, slipping my feet out of my shoes. Satisfied, Erik turned to put out the lamps as I sat down on the sofa, adjusting the pillow behind my head and wrapping myself in his blanket; it was dark, but I could make out his shape crawling into bed, and I heard the sigh as his body settled into the mattress. There were no more words spoken, but I listened to the rhythm of his breath as it grew slower, and softer, and eventually into the long, deep breaths of sleep. I found myself mimicking the pattern, and by the time I was certain, I gave in myself, each of our own fatigues giving way to a soft and dreamless sleep.


End file.
